


The Truth About Sebastian Smythe

by DasWarSchonKaputt



Category: Glee
Genre: Journal Entries, M/M, POV First Person, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3827836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasWarSchonKaputt/pseuds/DasWarSchonKaputt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Smythe does what he wants. Fuck the world. Now, if only the world would quit fucking him back. </p><p>AKA: Sebastian Smythe's therapy journal, ages 17 to 18.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth About Sebastian Smythe

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of warnings here. Why can't I write happy shit?
> 
> Past dubiously consensual sex, Sebastian/OMC, non-consensual breathplay, and the fact that Sebastian and OMC are engaging in BDSM without agreeing on a safeword beforehand.

Week One

**PROMPT: Tell me about yourself.**

My name is Sebastian Smythe and I am a ‘high risk’ patient.

What the fuck does that even mean, by the way? I’m at a high risk of doing what? Throwing a chair at you? Committing suicide? Literally _dying of boredom_? Probably, actually, if you’re the last bastion of hope for my fragile mental state.

Top tip, Doc: if you’re going to leave the room mid-session, don’t leave my file on your desk. I’m a 17 year-old kid; I am more than capable of opening it and reading the damned thing.

Let’s not tiptoe around the real reason I’m here: my parents think that I’m mentally unhinged because they caught me fucking – well, being fucked by if we’re going to be accurate – one of my father’s business associates. It’s a bit disappointing, really. He wasn’t even that good a lay.

My file says that I’m ‘hypersexualised’. I prefer the term ‘slut’. Shorter, you know?

Look, the only reason I’m here, in your shitstain of an office, writing in this _journal_ – and you know what? Calling it a journal doesn’t somehow make this any less of a diary or any more manly – is because Daddy Dearest threatened me with boarding school. In fucking Ohio. And as confident as I am in my ability to turn even the straightest prep school boy to my wicked, wicked hedonist ways, Ohio _._

I’d rather be stranded in the Gobi Desert than Ohio. I’d rather be stranded in the Gobi Desert without waterthan Ohio.

So, I suppose you can take solace in that, Doc. You beat out Ohio. Congratu-fucking-lations.

Oh, right. I’m supposed to tell you about myself. Okay, how’s this:

I’m Sebastian – and that’s Seb or Sebastian, not Bas or Bastian, or whatever other crap you can cook up – and I’m a slut. Big time. I love taking it up the ass, or down the throat, or pressed against the hip, or however takes their fancy. Sometimes that involves handcuffs. That’s always fun.

Hobbies? Well, sex would be a big one. Drinking, another. Drugs, sometimes. Basically all the trappings of a kid with more money than sense.

You’ve already met my dysfunctional mess of a family, so I’ll spare you the poor little rich kid sob story. Mom and Dad are exactly as you would think: wilfully ignorant, and just busy enough that they never stop for a moment to consider changing that.

Fuck this shit.

 

**PROMPT: Do you believe in God?**

No. Next question please.

 

**PROMPT: What would happen if it started raining spaghetti and meatballs?**

Meteorologists all over the world would be baffled. Some scientist would come up with an explanation as to why and then their friend would take credit, publish a paper and get their name slapped on a couple of theorems and maybe a unit of measurement.

~~Kurt would cry about his ruined clothe~~

Some asshat producer would look at the phenomenon and smell money to be made. We’d get a blockbuster movie about the incident, they’d make millions, and we’d be forced to sit through three subpar sequels before the studio finally called it quits.

The Italian food industry would collapse.

I would die of shock and finally be free of the tedium of your shitty journal prompts.

 

Week Two

**PROMPT: How are you feeling today?**

Hung-over.

It probably didn’t help that ~~Kurt~~ ~~that kid~~ ~~your girly patient~~ Kurt was dressed in colours so bright that he would probably glow in the dark if I hit the lights, and I was forced to spend the five minutes before you kicked your previous patient out actually  looking at him and then actually listening to him as he single-handedly destroyed every misconception I had about how high a boy’s voice could go. Seriously, has he even gone through puberty yet? He could pass for eleven with the right haircut.

Maybe you should see about getting him some testosterone. Tell him I’ll pay for it, just so that I don’t have to hear him shriek in my ear like a fucking banshee.

That said, hangover or no, it was so worth it.

I met a guy – hung like a fucking horse. And yeah, a little inexperienced, but holy shit did he have the stamina to make up for it.

All in all a good night.

I’ll take a pounding headache and sore ass for that any time.

 

**PROMPT: What is your fondest childhood memory?**

I am still technically in my childhood, you do realise that, right? That’s the entire reason I’m here, you know? Not yet 18, so my parents can still force me into this crap?

But hey, I’m in a relatively good mood. I’ll humour you.

When I was seven, I broke my arm. I wasn’t looking where I was going when I was cycling, and I hit a tree. My bike was okay. I ended up in hospital getting a bunch of white gunk slathered onto my arm.

For a seven year-old, breaking your arm was kind of exciting. All my friends signed my cast, and I didn’t have to write notes in class for weeks – I basically had a good time of it all. The cast was kind of itchy, but I soon figured out the ruler trick.

I just remember coming out of the hospital though and seeing my dad there. He’d come back home from work early when he heard about the accident and he was waiting for me. He ruffled my hair, told me I was brave and that he was proud of me.

There’s a first and a last time for everything.

 

**PROMPT: What would you do if you won the lottery?**

You’re asking the son of one of America’s most successful businesswomen, I hope you realise.

I’d invest it. Preferably in my mother’s company, but I’ll take stock in any of the more stable corporations if need be.

Oh and I’d use the rest to buy Kurt a wardrobe that doesn’t look like a rainbow threw up on it. Charitable donations and all that jazz.

 

Week Three

**PROMPT: Is there anything you want to tell me?**

Yeah.

Go fuck yourself.

Do you really think it’s a coincidence that the day after I tell you about my fake ID, my mom suddenly decides that she’s going to attempt ‘good parenting’ for the first time in FIVE YEARS and searches my room? And finds my fake and fucking burns it?

Fuck you.

Whatever happened to, ‘whatever you tell me stays between us’? You’re so full of shit.

 

Week Four

**PROMPT: What is something that is bothering you?**

So.

I guess I owe you an apology.

You’re not as much of an asshole as I thought. Congratulations, you have unlocked the achievement ‘did not break doctor-patient confidentiality’. Enjoy your basic human decency.

I really hate therapy, have I told you that? Who am I kidding? It’s not like I’ve been trying to hide it. So it’s not personal or anything, just … this isn’t for me. And I’m trying to get out of it by making both of our lives difficult.

Oh look at that, Sebastian Smythe expressing emotion. Things must be getting pretty chilly down in the seventh circle right now.

My mom installed spyware on my phone.

Yeah. We’re at that level of fucked up.

I mean, it’s not the worst thing she’s ever done. As soon as I figured out what was going on, I bought myself a handy burner phone and got it set up with my contacts and shit. Not rocket science, you know?

Mom is trying.

I wish she wouldn’t.

 

**PROMPT: Do you believe in love at first sight?**

I think that it’s possible for some people. My grandparents always say they fell in love at first sight and it’s hard not to believe them. They’ve been married for forty years, and every time I see them they’re still as sickeningly in love as the last, so they must be doing something right.

It doesn’t work like that for me.

I get passing attraction. I get the whole ‘you’re hot, let’s fuck’ thing. I think I even get a feeling of instant connection you can have with someone.

Love at first sight is just too easy.

I don’t want easy.

 

**PROMPT: You’re trapped in a bunker at the end of the world with two other people – who are they?**

I haven’t met them yet.

 

Week Five

**PROMPT: What is something nice that someone has done for you today?**

Zach woke me up with a blowjob.

I’ve told you about Zach before right? Best friend since kindergarten turned fuck buddy, hotter than a fusion reactor, no gag reflex?

I can only go to his when Mom’s out of town on business, because she disapproves of him. It’s actually pretty laughable, because she seems to think that I have something left for him to corrupt. I’m tempted to let her in on some of the stuff I’ve pushed him into, just to see her self-ignite at the effort to figure out which one of us is the bad influence on the other.

I stayed over with Zach last night. We played video games, watched a couple of movies, and then he tied me to the bed and fucked me into the mattress.

Anyway, I fell asleep sometime around three am and woke up with him deep-throating my cock. So, yeah, that was pretty nice.

 

**PROMPT: Describe someone you know.**

If you trawled internet forums and collected every single stereotype about gay men, then distilled them all into one body, you’d get Kurt Hummel. He’s a show-tunes-lovin’, Vogue-readin’, card-carryin’ gay.

Oh, and did I mention the fact that he’s the very definition of the word ‘prude’? Yeah, it’d take a fucking diamond-edged buzz-saw just to separate his virginal legs. I said the word ‘bondage’ in front of him and he blushed, then mumbled something about having a boyfriend.

I bet he’s even the waiting ‘til marriage type. Probably has a promise ring dangling from his neck like a good little Christian.

He is, without a doubt, the worst thing about your dreary waiting room. And that includes the pictures of female genitalia disguised as flowers.

He makes my skin itch. He’s an eyesore and a half and above all of that, so fucking convinced of his own superiority. Like he’s God’s gift to homosexuality. Actually given what I’ve heard of God’s feelings towards us less-than-straights, that may just be accurate. I’d rate him above the locusts, but below the frogs.

Where the fuck does he even get off with his fucking holier than thou attitude? So what, you’re still a virgin? Big fucking whoop. Who gives a flying fuck? Stop glorifying your un-breached asshole like it’s some sort of badge of honour.

Kurt fucking Hummel. Kurt fucking Hummel with his ‘I’m better than you smiles’ and his fucking haute couture and his speaking French and then acting surprised when I speak back because I apparently have ‘ignoramus’ stamped on my forehead ~~and his stupid perfect ass in his stupid jea~~

~~Oh fuck~~

 

**PROMPT: If you could talk to animals, what would you say?**

“Humans are assholes, right?”

 

Week Six

**PROMPT: Have you had a good week? Why?**

It’s been a good week. A really fucking awesome week.

Zach fixed me up with a new fake and took me out to Belladonna. In case you’re not really into the clubbing culture, and I very much doubt you are, Belladonna is this gay club in downtown. It’s a little more high-brow than I tend to like, and the cost of drinks is extortionate, but the music’s good and the bathroom doesn’t stink of vomit.

I met a guy – Fabio? Something Italian – and danced a bit, before going home with both him and Zach. That was … new.

I guess I didn’t drink as much as I usually do, because I woke up blissfully hangover free, even if I was covered in come. So I showered, showed Italian Guy the door and cooked breakfast for Zach. Zach is always like a fucking zombie post-sex and fucked if I was going to let him near fire in that state.

That was Tuesday.

Wednesday, Mom came home, but she was too drained to notice the assortment of hickeys on my neck. I dug out a couple of scarves from the back of the closet for the following days. It’s pretty much habit by now.

 

**PROMPT: Do you find it scary doing new things?**

Zach was my first.

Yeah, I know, how strangely typical and ordinary. The first guy I let fuck me was my best friend. Go figure.

I wasn’t so much scared as drunk off my face when it happened, so I don’t remember much of it. Zach says it was good and that I had fun, so I guess I’ll have to take his word for it.

I was so far past hung-over when I woke up it wasn’t funny, but it was nice, you know, to be held. Warm.

After that, sex got easier. A few months later and I was even able to remember it the next morning.

 

**PROMPT: All of humanity’s knowledge is about to be lost and you have the opportunity to send a short message to the people of the future who will have to rebuild it all – what do you send?**

Good luck, fuckers.

 

Week Seven

**PROMPT: Is there something you’ve done recently that you regret?**

~~I’m scared~~

~~I don’t know what I’m doi~~

~~I should tell s~~

No.

 

Week Eight

**PROMPT: Did you sleep well?**

No. No I did not fucking “sleep well”. Fucking Christ, if I didn’t know that you’d written these bullshit prompts long before you handed over this fucking journal, then I’d suspect you chose the timing of them just to mock me.

Here’s the really awesome thing about holding cells: the beds are like slabs of concrete. Disease-ridden, piss-soaked blocks of concrete. You try sleeping for more than a few hours on them and then come back and ask me, “Did you sleep well?”

It’s been a bad week.

A bad couple of weeks.

Fuck, it’s just been a bad month.

Zach called me Bas.

Yeah. Mid-undressing, as he babbled on about God and swearwords, he called me Bas. ~~I don’t~~ No-one’s allowed to call me Bas. I have gotten up halfway through foreplay and walked out after people have called me Bas. Anyone else, I would have walked out of there, half-naked, zero fucks given.

It was Zach, though. So I stayed.

Fuck, what was I thinking?

He called me Bas, and then, as I “took it like a whore” he wrapped his hands around my neck and squeezed. ~~I don’t~~ ~~Breathplay~~ I don’t do that. I couldn’t breathe and I guess maybe that’s fun for some people, but I  couldn’t breathe.

I know Zach and I have done things that edge further and further towards the BDSM area of sex, but it’s never been a big thing. Sure, sometimes I let him chain me to the bed and fuck me, but he always ~~stops when I say stop~~ stopped when I said stop.

I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t tell him to stop. We didn’t have a safeword. I tried to tap out, but his hands just got tighter and tighter and tighter and

I couldn’t breathe.

And he was still there, behind me, telling me I was his little slut and saying that I took it so well, and that I was born to be fucked.

I couldn’t breathe.

~~I couldn’t~~

I must have passed out somewhere in the middle, because the next thing I can remember, I was waking up in his bed the next morning, with dark purple marks wrapping around my neck. I got dressed as fast as I could and I left.

Mom was at the kitchen table when I got back. She didn’t even look at me. Just turned a page in her report and asked if there was something I wanted.

And then there was Kurt fucking Hummel, in your fucking waiting room, who frowned at the scarf I was wearing and asked if I was okay. “Are you okay?” Fuck, someone call a doctor, we’ve got a bleeding heart.

And you, just like everyone fucking else, assumed that the scarf was to hide love-bites.

Just like Dad.

You know what Mom said when she came to pick me up from my holding cell this morning? She said, “Boys and their fathers,” all condescending and uncaring. Fuck you, Mom. Fuck you for picking Dad. Fuck you for not leaving him back when you could. Fuck you for not leaving him now.

Last night, Dad and Mom dragged me out for dinner with some city bigwigs. There was Too Much Facial Hair with his much too young wife, and Heart Attack Bait and his wife, and Simply Too Much.

It was all very high-brow. Black-tie. Too much champagne and not enough vodka. And it was fine. It’s always fine. It was fine until they started to talk to me.

Too Much Facial Hair put his hand on his much younger wife’s back and said, “You ever going to remove the scarf, son? Keep it on any longer and we’re going to think you’re hiding love-bites.” And then he chortled.

So I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Yeah. That’s exactly it.”

Dad’s eyes were on me. “Sebastian,” he said warningly.

Too Much Facial Hair just grinned. “Nah, it’s okay, Paul,” he said. “We remember how it was, back when we were young. I bet your girlfriend’s just as lovely as your mother, right, son?”

“He would probably object to being called a girl.”

That’s probably the line that made Dad backhand me after the night was over. I don’t know what it was that made me hit him back.

I just know that the evening ended with me in a holding cell and my dad schmoozing his way around the police station, collecting sympathy for his fucked up son.

So my mom picked me up this morning and dragged me to therapy. “Boys and their fathers,” she said, shaking her head like men confused her, like she wasn’t a leader in a male-dominated industry, like she was nothing more than a trophy wife.

“Don’t do that again, Sebastian,” she said.

What? Out myself to my father’s business associates or defend myself against him afterwards?

You know what’s a fucking miracle, though? Throughout all of this, I managed to keep my scarf on around my neck.

Or maybe no one cared enough to try and remove it.

 

**PROMPT: Who do you trust the most in your life?**

Depressingly, really, you.

 

**PROMPT: If you could have a superpower, what would it be?**

I think I answered a question similar to this in third grade. Back then, I said that I would want to be able to turn invisible – not because I wanted to be invisible, but because I thought it would be a really awesome way to find out people’s secrets so that I could use them against them.

I was a fucked up third grader, alright?

Now, I think I’d want to be able to run.

Not just run, but run fast. Get away from shit as it happens. Be here one moment, across the country in the next.

That would be nice, I guess.

 

Week Nine

**PROMPT: Is there something you are confused about?**

Kurt asked me out to karaoke with his friends and I said yes.

Kurt asked me out to karaoke with his friends. I said yes.

Okay, before you get all excited that I’m finally “branching out of my limited circle of acquaintances”, it’s not about making new friends. It’s mostly that I want to be out of the house and most of my usual haunts have the added risk of running into Zach. And, just, no. Not going to happen.

So, Kurt asked me to karaoke. Well, really, it was more like I bitched about not having anything to do and he plucked out an iPod earphone to tell me that I was welcome to come with him to karaoke that night.

And, like, what?

We’re not friends. Not-Friends do not invite each other to karaoke with their friends. And we don’t even like each other. I have done literally nothing to persuade him that I am a Fun Person to be around.

Fuck, I bet his friends are all carbon copies of him. Snooty Jesus Freaks – do snooty Jesus Freaks go to karaoke? I bet they sing hymns.

Fucking hell, what have I agreed to?

 

**PROMPT: What do you want to be when you grow up?**

It depends who you ask. If you ask the careers aptitude test, it will tell you that I want to be a forensic scientist. That’s what I get, I suppose, for just circling random options on a multiple-choice test. Honestly, I can’t think of anything more boring than sitting in a lab running endless samples of blood through a computer database, but I guess that crime shows do make it look appealing.

If you ask my high school guidance counsellor, she would probably say a dancer, even though exactly what I told her was ‘stripper’. Yeah, the fun had only just begun there; Mom was pretty pissed to be called away from work to a parent-teacher conference about her son’s lack of ambition.

If you ask my dad, he’d say lawyer. Because that’s really the only option I have in his eyes.

If you ask my mom, she’d probably say that she doesn’t know. She’s never asked.

Zach probably would have said ‘sex-addict’, because I’m only just realising that he’s really not funny.

Is it okay to say I don’t know?

I don’t know.

 

**PROMPT: If you were famous, what would it be for?**

At the rate I’m going, a sex scandal with a conservative politician. God, Dad would probably have an aneurysm.

Well, looks like I have a new bullet point on my checklist.

 

Week Ten

**PROMPT: What have you done that you are proud of?**

I went out to karaoke with Kurt’s friends and I did not make a single unjustly mean remark.

A big step for me, I know.

I mean, wow, it’s almost like I’m not actually a bitch.

Kurt Hummel, however… Oh man, we should have gone out together sooner.

Catty, I guess, would probably be the right way to describe him. He introduced his friend Rachel as “the one who’s dressed as a cross between an octogenarian and a toddler” and me as his “friend Sebastian” and “don’t worry, his face always looks like that”.

According to Mercedes, Kurt is actually an atheist, now single, and has a tragic taste in boyfriends. She looked directly at me when she said that last bit, which was pretty hilarious. Kurt and I would probably end up gouging each other’s eyes out if we tried to date.

The evening was pretty lame, if I’m honest. No one got drunk. No one lost any clothes. There was a lot of singing – some of it making me wish I was drunk – and an ill-advised dance number. No drunken debauchery. No hymns.

Kurt gave me a hug at the end of it and told me we should do it again.

I’m beginning to suspect that you put him up to this.

 

**PROMPT: What is something that inspires you?**

The way Kurt Hummel’s ass looks as he dances to Single Ladies in skin-tight jeans.

Yeah. Pretty fucking inspirational.

 

**PROMPT: Free write.**

I knew you were going to run out of unlikely situations sooner or later.

Zach texted me this morning. “whats up?” That’s it. Word for word. Shitty grammar for shitty grammar.

I blocked his number.

 

Week Eleven

**PROMPT: How have you been?**

Good.

Kurt’s started taking me out for coffee. It’s nice. Well, he’s not nice, because that would be really fucking odd, but the coffee thing is nice. We talk about stuff and he blushes bright red whenever I mention sex, then stutters his way through a comeback that will indubitably make me laugh.

Zach was there one day.

He spotted us and started coming over to our table. I kind of freaked out a bit, but Kurt was … kind of a badass. He waited until Zach was close to our table, then he knocked his coffee – his scalding hot coffee that he was leaving to cool before drinking – straight into Zach’s crotch.

Of course, it wasn’t on purpose. That would be assault. Kurt would never do such a thing. It was a complete accident.

Naturally.

Anyway I

 

 

 

 

Kurt just kissed me.

Fuck.

~~I don’t know what to~~

I was here, like I always am, writing in your fucking journal in your fucking patient waiting room, and Kurt Hummel walked in and he kissed me.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fucking fuck.

 

Week Twelve

**PROMPT: Tell about something that happened to you recently.**

Kurt kissed me.

He kissed me.

And I want to kiss him.

No, you don’t get it. I want to kiss him. I don’t want to fuck him, or have him fuck me, or whatever, I just want to kiss him. Lips on lips, the taste of his cherry chapstick, kiss.

That’s…

Fucking hell, I want to date Kurt Hummel. I don’t even know why he’s in therapy. For all I know, he could be some kind of serial killer. I don’t even know who his parents are or where he goes to school or what he’s allergic to or

Kurt Hummel.

Kurt Hummel with his high cheekbones. Kurt Hummel with his perfectly maintained hair. Kurt Hummel with his subscription to Vogue. Kurt Hummel. Kurt Hummel. Kurt Hummel.

I want to kiss Kurt Hummel.

I want to date Kurt Hummel.

I’m going insane.

 

**~~PROMPT: What type of music do you enjoy?~~ **

Just

Oh my God, how have I missed this?

We’re a romcom cliché. Snarky banter and UST.

He kissed me.

Why did he kiss me? He doesn’t even like me. Except he does. Oh fuck, he likes me.

~~I’m going to have to see an eye specialist soon aren’t I?~~

I like him.

I like Kurt Hummel.

This is just like the Big Gay Freakout of 2006, but worse. So much worse.

 

Week Thirteen

**PROMPT: What’s on your mind?**

Okay, I want to preface this by saying that you’re not allowed to say, “I told you so.” No one likes a smug asshole and as my therapist, I’m ninety per cent certain that you’re supposed to be likeable at the very least. ~~Competent would probably be too much to ask.~~

I have a boyfriend.

I am dating Kurt Hummel. I have kissed Kurt Hummel. Kurt Hummel has kissed me. Multiple times. Not always on the lips.

You have thirty seconds to silently gloat. You were right. I was wrong.

And those two sentences are among the most painful I have ever had to write. If you ever make me repeat them, I will fill this damned journal with every last detail of mine and Kurt’s sex life that you didn’t want to know. You know me well enough by now to know that that is not an empty threat.

Not that Kurt and I are having sex. We’re disgustingly PG-13. It’s like we stepped out of a Disney movie.

And I…

I actually like that.

Yeah.

 

**PROMPT: If you were an animal, which would you be?**

Kurt just looked at me and said, “A meerkat.” Is it too late to break up with him?

 

Week Fourteen

**PROMPT: Have you had an argument with someone lately? What was it about?**

Kurt wanted to meet my parents.

I wanted to keep him as far away from Chateau Smythe as physically possible.

There was shouting.

It’s just, Kurt seemed to think that this was about shame. It wasn’t. I’m not ashamed of him, or of my family particularly. In fact, I am, dare I say it, what most would consider shameless.

 ~~I just~~ My family are poisonous. That’s not an exaggeration. My mother still has  spyware installed on my phone, for fuck’s sake. My dad hit me and all my mom said was, “Boys and their fathers.” ~~We’re not~~

No one would enjoy Kurt meeting my parents. Not my parents. Not me. Not Kurt.

And it’s not like they even fucking care, is it? They’d just look at Kurt and see some twink I’m fucking – someone who was maybe better at sex than the rest of my bedroom partners, so I’d decided to keep him around. Someone with a big dick and a lot of stamina.

When I told him this, Kurt got oddly quiet. Then he invited me to dinner with his dad.

You’d like Burt Hummel. No, really, you two would get on so fucking well. He’s weirdly insightful too, and this odd cross between sincere and gruff. It was nice to see that Kurt didn’t solely get his compassion from his mother.

Dinner with Burt was the very epitome of awkward, though. I have no idea what Kurt told his dad about me, but Burt seemed oddly hesitant around me, like he was watching his mouth, trying not to say anything that might set me off. Conversation roamed between football (Burt’s a Buckeyes fan and I’m still not sure why) and Kurt’s dreams of fashion school in New York (see this face – this is my unsurprised face) and the fact that Burt had seen my dad on the news once. He dropped that last subject of discussion pretty rapidly, probably because of the look of ‘ixnay on the ather-fay’ that Kurt shot him from beside me.

I didn’t fuck it up.

I was tempted to, trust me. It would have been so easy for me to just say, “Your son takes cock like a pro, Mr. Hummel,” and watch him turn his very own shade of purple.

Though, now I think about it, he’d probably just have patted me on the shoulder and told me not to try so hard. Because that’s what Burt does.

~~I want a dad like Burt Hummel~~

Kurt is lucky to have Burt.

 

Week Fifteen

**PROMPT: What is something new that you have learnt to do this week?**

Kurt taught me how to cover up hickeys with makeup.

Oh no, I’m not even kidding. Kurt took me out to the mall, helped me get some stuff that matched my skin tone, and then gave me a step-by-step guide. Then he gave me some hickeys so that I could try it out.

I fucking love Kurt.

 

**PROMPT: What is something that you are good at?**

I’m pretty good at lacrosse.

Okay, fuck this modesty shit. I am amazing at lacrosse. I am a fucking nationally ranked lacrosse player. There are college scouts lining up to offer me scholarships; I could go anywhere I wanted in America and not pay a single dollar in tuition.

I won’t though.

Because I have more money than sense. Because I have a trust fund with my name on it. Because I don’t need a fucking scholarship. Because lacrosse isn’t…

Lacrosse is fun. Jesus Christ, it’s one of the few uncomplicated, fun things in my life.

No-one on the team gives a shit what I do so long as I score goals. No-one on the team has tried to sleep with me, and fucked if the number of people that I can slot into that category is disturbingly small. No-one wants me for anything more than turning up at their games and being a part of their team.

I can stop lacrosse any time I want. I can stop and all that will happen is that a few people will be disappointed in me. I can stop and my father won’t give a damn. I can stop.

Lacrosse is fun, but as soon as I turn it into a shackle, I’m going to resent it.

And God, can’t I just have this one unblemished thing in my life?

 

**PROMPT: What is your favourite book?**

The Kama Sutra.

I kid, I kid.

I would probably have to go with ‘A Wizard of Earthsea’. It probably doesn’t hurt that the Studio Ghibli adaptation is awesome – a little different, but still awesome. It’s sort of like an origin story for Dumbledore figures, and Ursula Le Guin was doing the wizard school thing way before J.K. Rowling.

Whatever, it’s a good book. You should read it.

 

Week Sixteen

**PROMPT: Is there anything you think I should know?**

I talked to Mom about the spyware. We sat down at the kitchen table and I told her I knew that she’d put the program on my phone and that I’d bought a burner phone ages ago. She didn’t seem particularly surprised.

I think the spyware thing was mostly her way of trying to be a good parent without having to really try, and that’s just how everything about her seems to work, doesn’t it?

So I told her I knew about the spyware and she agreed to remove it from my phone, and then she asked if there was anything else I wanted to tell her.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, there is.”

And then her fucking cell rang. And she held a finger up and said, “I have to take this.”

She walked out.

I was going to tell her about Kurt.

 

**PROMPT: What do you think it would be like to be struck by lightning?**

Uh, painful?

I’m not really planning on finding out if I’m honest, though I don’t suppose many lightning-strike victims do. And it’s not like I’m ever going to find out – there’s only something like a one in 300,000 chance that I’ll ever be struck by lightning.

And I know I’m one in a million, but there’s no way on earth I can have that bad luck.

 

Week Seventeen

**PROMPT: Tell me about your week.**

So.

So, Kurt has PTSD.

So, Kurt, my boyfriend, my 17 year-old boyfriend, has PTSD, and no one thought it might be a good idea to let me know.

Fuck, do you know how I found out? I found out because he had a flashback in the middle of us making out. Yeah. Someone slammed a door below us and he jumped out of his freaking skin, pale and white and shaking.

I’m not going to break up with him over it, and you can quote me on that if you need to, but, fuck. Don’t you think someone should have told me? Kurt having PTSD is pretty pertinent information.

What if I triggered him? Think about that. What if I unknowingly triggered him and he ended up having a panic attack and I just made it worse?

I get that some things are private. I get that sometimes you don’t want to share what you’re going through because it makes it more real, or because it’s nice to have things that are separate from all the other shit going down, but this is different.

This is different.

And if you have to tear this page out of this fucking journal and shove it at Kurt to make him understand that, do it.

 

Week Eighteen

**PROMPT: What have you been up to?**

Kurt’s not speaking to me.

Collect your bets, folks, everyone who bet on ‘five weeks until Sebastian fucks it up’, you’re about to get a bit richer. Sorry anyone who thought I’d last longer.

The fight was about sex. ~~God, what isn’t?~~

Well, it didn’t start out that way. It started out being about – fuck, I don’t know. Something dumb. And I tried to fix it. With sex.

Okay, maybe ‘by sticking my hand down his pants’ would be more accurate. Stop looking at me like that, Doc. I know I fucked up. Kurt made that much clear.

“Why did I think I could do this?” (I don’t know, Kurt, because you don’t tell me shit.) “This is your problem, Sebastian – you think sex is a tool. You use sex to pull people towards you. You use sex to push people away from you. And I’m not going to be the guy who lets you solve your problems by opening your legs—”

That was about the point where his mind caught up with what his mouth was saying and he started apologising. Then I called him a frigid bitch and walked out.

So, yeah. Not speaking to me and around 96% my fault. I’m such a

 

Kurt just walked into the waiting room. He’s sat opposite me, just like he always is, and he’s looking at me, like he’s waiting for me to say something.

I don’t know what to do.

 

**~~PROMPT: When is it okay to lie?~~ **

Okay. So Kurt and I talked. I know this should technically be in the ‘week nineteen’ section, but it’s kind of in the same vein and I just want to get it down now.

We talked about sex.

It was – and I say this as a teenager who has been caught with his father’s business associate’s dick up his ass by his father – the single most awkward thing I have ever been forced to endure. You want to know why it was so awful? Kurt and I got about as far as establishing a basis of consent before Burt – Kurt’s father, Burt – walked in and caught wind of our conversation. Burt then sat down with the both of us and told us very earnestly that we mattered.

I’m not even kidding. Word for word: “Sebastian, Kurt, you kids shouldn’t throw yourselves around or at each other, okay? You matter, okay? Make sure you remember to treat yourselves like it.”

Where does the universe even find these people?

(Kurt, I can feel you rolling your eyes over my shoulder. Stop it, or else I’ll whip out a Dulux colour chart and start on the various colours your face went through the discussion. We’d need a spreadsheet to keep track of the data – seriously, how were you still conscious with all that blood diverted away from your brain?)

 

Week Nineteen

**PROMPT: Tell me about a time you were brave.**

I told Kurt I loved him. And that was fucking terrifying.

It wasn’t a made for movies moment, okay? There was no big speech, no emotionally fraught exchange, just us. We were lying on his bed – door wide open, as per his father’s rules, and golly gee, it’s almost like Burt doesn’t trust me with his son’s virtue – side by side and I just thought, “Fuck it.”

So I told him I loved him. Love him.

He said it back.

I don’t know which action was braver: me telling him, or him loving me back.

 

**PROMPT: And a time you weren’t.**

Yesterday Kurt tried to have sex with me. Well, I use the word ‘try’ lightly; we didn’t get very far.

But he was kissing me and he went for the buckle of my belt. He paused there, hand hesitant and he said, “Is this okay?”

I nodded, because I’ve never done anything other than nod when faced with that question. Kurt bit his lip as he smiled, and he reached up with delicate fingers and brushed them across the side of my cheek, then lower, lower, lower.

It was okay. It was more than okay.

I don’t know what changed. I don’t know how I could look at Kurt, feel the press of his lips on mine, and feel the ghosts of hands around my neck. I don’t know why I suddenly couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t control the word as it forced itself up and out of my mouth.

“Stop.”

He stopped.

He stopped and I wanted to fall apart in relief. He stopped and he got off me and he asked me if I was okay and he let me hug him and then made me sit through the entire High School Musical trilogy with him and it was cheesy and awful and

I have no idea what he is doing with me.

 

Week Twenty

**PROMPT: Free write.**

That’s still lazy, Doc.

It’s my birthday in ten days’ time. The big 1-8. Adult life approaches, and with it, the power to make my own medical decisions.

So, next week’s session will be our last.

It’s not personal, Doc. You were actually kind of tolerable for most of it. Just, therapy isn’t for me. I need to be left alone in my head for a while, or maybe just forever.

 ~~You~~ ~~This has~~ You helped me.

 ~~I was pretty shitty~~ At the start, I was a complete asshole and you still helped me. And don’t give me shit about it being your job – your job was to give my parents an easy way to fix their son and you … didn’t.

I’m actually marginally less fucked up than when we began. That’s deserving of an award all on its own.

Doctor Carole Hudson: better than Ohio.

(Be proud; that was almost civil.)

 

Week Twenty-One

**PROMPT: Tell me about yourself.**

My name is Sebastian Smythe. That’s Seb or Sebastian, not Bas, not Bastian.

You’ve heard more than enough on the subject of my dysfunctional mess of a family, and they don’t really have that much to do with me anyway. In three days’ time none of it will matter. As soon as I hit 18, my trust fund unlocks and I’m moving in with my grandparents in New York.

Hobbies? Singing, I guess. Lacrosse as well. And pretending to hate the musicals that my boyfriend makes me watch just to watch him get worked up.

Oh, and speaking of, I’m dating this guy – the aforementioned boyfriend – named Kurt. Kurt Hummel. He’s kind of a prude and he goes bright red whenever someone so much as mentions sex, but don’t worry.

I have confidence in my ability to turn him to my wicked, wicked hedonist ways.

 

 

(Kurt snorted when he read this. “Oh, Sebastian, you stud,” he said, swooning dramatically. Of course, he didn’t catch himself in time and ended up falling flat on his face because he is the least graceful graceful-person I have ever met. Why am I dating this nerd again?)

 

 

(Oh, and one last thing: it didn’t take a diamond-edged buzz-saw after all.)


End file.
